


Poker Night 1:  Little Mr. Marker

by Ruth_Devero



Series: Poker Night [1]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Poker Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, one game of strip poker, and nothing more to bet with.  The classic set-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker Night 1:  Little Mr. Marker

It was cold. He hunched over his cards, trying to concentrate, trying to ignore the temperature. _You’re a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, for god’s sake_ , he told himself. _You’re getting soft_. Cold was a temperature that froze the nose hairs in five minutes. Cold seared the skin as surely as a branding iron. Outside it was nearly 21 degrees Celsius. This wasn’t cold.

But his skin was a mass of goosebumps, an odd prickling sensation all over.

All over. He shifted on the hard chair. All over. He frowned at the cards, trying to block out the sensation, trying to forget _why_ goosebumps covered him—all over.

“Your bet, Benny.” Ray Vecchio was grinning at him across the table, hazel eyes alight with mischief. The Chicago police officer lounged in his own chair, fanning himself with his poker hand and eating a pretzel.

And smirking. Benton Fraser studied his poker hand. His bet. He shifted again in his chair, trying to warm up its cold surface. His bet.

He cleared his throat. “Ray,” he said, “I—um—I don’t have—I don’t have anything more to bet with.”

The smirk grew. Amazing how much like a wolf Ray could look when he lowered his head and smiled over that long nose—a scheming wolf. Let a wolf save your life, and you pay and pay and—

“Yes, Benny.” Ray’s free hand caressed the pile of clothing at his side of the table. “Yes, I’d say you don’t have much to bet with.”

Fraser turned back to his poker hand. Humiliating. He’d played strip poker before—learned it from—let’s see—Lydia Greenapple, a visiting Mohican helicopter pilot who’d consistently overestimated her own prowess at poker. Fraser frowned. At least he’d assumed she’d overestimated her prowess. Odd, how often she’d managed to shed just enough clothing to—distract him into losing. With all the time that little smile on her face—the same smile, Fraser realized, that he’d seen on Ray’s face once he’d started losing tonight. And Fraser had lost and lost again: the belt, the boots, the socks, the shirt; and then the undershirt, the jeans, and, finally, the—well, the boxer shorts. They’d played poker almost every night of Ray’s vacation, and Fraser had won a respectable number of times. Tonight, though, he’d lost all his extra cash, and Ray had suggested—well, this.

And—so odd, really—Ray’s expression as he’d watched Fraser disrobe: appraising and—approving. Of course, he’d seen those expressions before on Ray’s face, more and more often in recent weeks, together with a certain wistfulness. Odd, how much that approval pleased him.

Fraser shifted again. Cold. This was a good hand. Two sixes; two nines. This was a very good hand. If only he’d something to bet, he’d start winning back his clothes.

“Benny.”

He looked up. “Yes, Ray?”

“Are you gonna bet?”

“I don’t—I don’t have anything more to bet with.”

Ray took a deep breath, licked his lips as if to moisten them, shifted in his own chair. “Sure you do,” he said lightly. “You got what you’re sittin’ on.”

Fraser blinked at him. “The chair?”

Ray went pleasantly scarlet. “No,” he said. “I mean—you got what you sit _with_.”

The words seemed to linger in the air. He stared at Ray and felt himself start to blush. He had—he had _what he was sitting with?_ Did Ray mean what that—did Ray really mean—

“Do you mean—sex?” His voice cracked on the words.

The scarlet deepened. “Well—uh—yeah. You know. Just a little—you know. Quick.”

He meant sex. Ray actually meant sex. The goosebumps returned—larger this time—a hard tingling that was not unpleasant.

Well, he had a good hand. The poker hand, not Ray’s well-shaped hand, with its clever fingers. Fraser had a _really_ good poker hand. And nothing to bet with. Really, there was nothing in Fraser’s spartan apartment that Ray could want. Apparently, Ray wanted this. Fraser looked again at the poker hand. He could do this.

“All right,” Fraser said. “Yes. I raise you—” He searched for words. “I raise you a—”

“—a quick roll,” Ray finished in a strangled voice.

Gad, the man could be crude. “Yes. I raise you—temporary use of my body.” _Which you will never enjoy_ , Fraser thought, looking into the crimson face. This was a really good hand.

But not as good as Ray’s.

Fraser stared at the cards Ray fanned out on the table, and the room seemed to spin around him. Three knaves—jacks, he amended. They certainly beat his two pair.

He raised his eyes to meet Ray’s. A quick roll. Ray had suggested it. Then why did Ray look so—nervous?

Fraser straightened in his chair, took a cleansing breath. A quick roll. “When would you like to—when would you require payment on my—marker?”

Ray took a deep breath of his own. “Now would be okay,” he said. There seemed to be something wrong with his voice.

Fraser’s hands tightened on the edge of the table. “Oh, good,” he heard his voice say. “I—I like to—pay my debts.”

Ray had the wolfish grin again, and Fraser blushed when he realized what he’d just said. Well, it would be better to get the whole thing over now. Get it over with. Have—sex with Ray. Then it would be over with, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it. The debt. Not worry about the debt.

He looked at Ray. “Where would you like—me?”

Ray glanced over at the bed, where Diefenbaker was sprawled. He slapped the table. “Here, I guess. I think we can manage it.” His eyes looked huge.

The table. Fraser took a deep breath. He _ate_ on this table. “All right,” he said. At least it was covered with oilcloth. He could scrub it. Hard. With bleach. It would be all right.

And so would he. It was just a quick—just a bodily function. Perhaps he ought to be alarmed by the perversity of the act, but actually it was just a bodily function. People did it all the time. Something Ray had won; something Ray wanted. Fraser would cooperate, but if he didn’t actually initiate any of the action, there’d be no shame in what happened. Not that there was any shame in it anyway, especially with Ray. But all he actually had to do was cooperate—just enough to pay off his marker. It was so cold. Fraser fought down the shivering.

And thought of something. “Do you have—”

“Protection?” Ray flipped open his wallet and extracted a brightly colored square. He held it up with a smile. “Be prepared.”

Good lord. He hoped it didn’t glow in the dark; he’d laugh, and Ray might not—appreciate that.

Fraser stood. Get this over with. It was really nothing, really. A phrase floated into his mind, the advice folklore suggested was given to a Victorian bride for the wedding night: “Close your eyes and think of England.” Nonsense, really.

Ray stood and was pushing away pretzels, empty beer cans, cards, clearing space. Close your eyes and think of—

They’d played poker so many nights, and it had come to this. Close his eyes and think of Canada. He quelled the shaking in his hands.

Ray looked at him, something shy shining in his eyes. The wrapped condom seemed to twinkle as it caught the light. Cold in here—Ray’s hands were shaking, too.

Ray’s tongue flicked over his lips. “Have you ever done this before?”

A pause. “Yes.” Experimenting as a teenager, with an Inuit friend. It had been—unsatisfying.

Ray’s eyes went huge. “ ‘ _Yes?_ ’ I ask you that question, and the answer is ‘ _yes?_ ’”

“Yes,” firmly. “Once. As a teenager.” Could they just get on with it? The shaking was becoming difficult to control. But politeness—and curiosity—made him add, “Have you? Ever done this kind of thing? Before, I mean?”

Ray blushed. “Couple times. Teenage stuff. I was—in your position. I mean—on the—”

“Ah.” There seemed nothing more to say. Why didn’t they just get on with it?

Fraser turned to face the table and leaned forward, supporting his weight on his hands. Closed his eyes. Something was wrong with his breathing—anxiety. Anxiety making his breathing so ragged, making his heart race. Anxiety making his knees tremble. It would be over soon, and then he could relax.

Rustling behind him; clinking. Ray’s voice muttering, “Now, where’s that olive oil … ”

Olive oil. Oh, dear. He’d have to get another bottle. Couldn’t use this one again, not after— He needed more olive oil, anyway. Olive oil and—he began to make a list.

Rustling behind him. The cold was affecting his nipples—they looked as hard as pebbles. But when he absently raised a hand to brush at his forehead, his fingers came away slick with sweat.

Rustling—the sound of a zipper. His heart was racing; his legs felt as if they’d collapse. He bent further—took the weight on his elbows. The anticipation was having an odd effect on his body: his penis was—it was hardening. Olive oil and maple syrup and—

The touch of the oil-slick fingers made him gasp. They slid gently up and down the crevice between his buttocks, caressing his anus. Gentle. Slow. Slippery. It felt—it felt not unpleasant.

The fingers went away—came back, slickened again. Pleasant, in fact. He took a deep breath as one finger probed. Pleasant. He could do this. Close his eyes and think of Canada.

Two fingers probing was still—pleasant. His penis began to ache deliciously. He could do this. Cooperate—but not initiate. More oil, and the delicious sensation of those caressing, probing fingers.

Then they were gone, and Ray was turning him, easing him onto the table, easing him onto his back.

Oh, dear—he closed his eyes tighter, not wanting to see those knowing eyes noting his erect penis. His heartbeat seemed the only sound in the room.

The kiss made his eyes fly open. Unexpected. Gentle. At the left corner of his mouth. He stared into hazel eyes alight with tenderness and passion.

A second kiss—at the right corner of his mouth. The hazel eyes on fire.

Odd: his lips were tingling, anticipating the next kiss. Ray’s mouth lowered, and he closed his eyes.

The kiss fell on his closed left eyelid. He cut off the whimper of protest that rose in his throat. Cooperate. Don’t initiate.

Right eyelid. His sigh was long and shuddering.

Left cheek, and his moan of disappointment seemed loud in the room. He didn’t open his eyes—didn’t want to see that mouth curving in its delicious smile.

Right cheek. He had no right to be disappointed in the kisses—he was simply there to pay off his marker. Close his eyes and think of—

—Ray. The mouth came down at last on his and blotted out everything else. Ray. Taste of Ray, scent of Ray. Ray’s mouth on his—gentle and firm. Ray’s tongue in his mouth—sweet. Delicious. Ray.

The mouth went away, trailed licks of fire down his throat, came back. It fed at his lower lip, offered its tongue to him. He put his hands on the back of Ray’s head to help steady the mouth.

Ray’s mouth at the side of his neck, Ray’s tongue caressing his ear, Ray’s lips nursing at his earlobe. He heard the echo of moans. His cock felt hard as granite. His hips wanted to thrust. He kept them still. Cooperate. Don’t initiate. The brush of Ray’s shirt on the head of his cock was a delicious torment. He opened his eyes.

“Ray.”

It came out as a moan. He tried again. “Ray.”

“Yeah?” The hazel eyes looked dazed.

“Your shirt—it—it’s scratchy.”

The shirt was off and on the floor in a single gesture. Better. His gaze fed on the strong shoulders, the wiry arms, the furry chest. Chest hair balanced by pubic hair accentuating—

He raised his eyes to the flushed face, to the beautiful mouth closing in on his own. He felt cold; he felt hot. Ray was—magnificent. And all that would be inside him. His hands found the back of Ray’s neck, deepening the kiss. His head was spinning.

Hands at his waist, pulling him toward Ray’s warmth. Hands sliding up his thighs, those clever fingers caressing, separating them. Hands sliding down his thighs, pulling his knees wider, wider, sliding down his calves, folding his legs until his calves rested on Ray’s beautiful shoulders.

Ray’s body against his throbbing cock. The length of Ray’s cock branding the inside of one thigh. Delicious.

Then, the tip at his oil-slick anus, probing deliciously. Probing harder, entering, increasing pressure …

“Relax, Benny,” Ray murmured, and kissed his ear.

He strove to obey. Pressure; then—then an exquisite sensation of being filled, as Ray’s cock slid home. He moaned at the sheer bliss of being filled—filled when he hadn’t known he was empty.

Then, gentle friction as Ray began to move inside him. Exquisite.

His mouth sought Ray’s, blindly, his tongue initiating a plundering of that sweetness. And when his hips moved, in time with Ray’s movement, the friction of Ray’s belly caressing his cock was—exquisite.

Exquisite. Ray. It was Ray. It was Ray—it was—it was—it—

Explosion of heat, of light; and his own voice exploding in a ragged cry that was half name.

Dazed, he heard his heartbeat, no faster than Ray’s frantic hips—pumping, pumping, pumping—

“ _Benny!_ ”

The strangled cry seemed to pierce him to the soul. The arching body went limp on top of him. He rested his heels on Ray’s back and held him, breathing in scent of sweat and skin and semen. Ray. Satisfying. Very satisfying. He felt weightless.

In the silence, the beat of that other heart was music. In time with the heartbeat, a voice in his mind murmured, _mine, mine, mine, mine_ …

At last, “Benny.”

Yes, Ray?

“Benny.”

He found breath. “Yes, Ray?”

“You’re—you’re gonna break my neck.”

“Oh. Sorry, Ray.”

His fingers were so tight that they didn’t want to loosen, but he pried them from the nape of Ray’s neck. They ached.

“Sorry, Ray,” he said, watching Ray massage the back of his neck.

“Yeah—well, these bruises are gonna be kind of hard to … explain.”

“A turtleneck sweater might be … appropriate.”

“Yeah.”

He looked up at the ceiling. Painting. The ceiling needed painting.

Surprising how bereft he felt when Ray’s softening penis left his body. He sat up, put his feet on the cool floor.

Ray handed him the dishtowel, and he swabbed the semen from his belly. Well, he had to do laundry, anyway. His mouth dried as he watched Ray clean his own belly with the same towel. It was an act both intimate and—curiously—arousing.

He swallowed hard. “Was that—satisfactory?” he asked.

Ray considered him for a moment. “Not quite,” he said.

His heart jumped. Another—

Ray placed his mouth on Fraser’s and leaned into the kiss. Fraser’s hands found Ray’s back and pressed him closer in a kiss deeper than thought. Mine, mine, mine.

His breathing was unsteady when Ray pulled away.

“ _Now_ your marker’s been paid,” Ray said, his mouth curving into that heart-stumbling smile.

“Er—good.” Very good. He liked to pay off his debts. He took a deep breath. It was over. He didn’t have to think of it again. Over. “Thank you kindly, Ray.” Over.

Ray was pulling up his trousers, fastening them, pulling on the shirt. He grinned at Benny and reached for the cards. “Still time for one more game,” he said, riffling them.

“I still don’t—don’t have anything to—to bet.” Fraser pulled up the chair and sat gingerly. The tenderness where Ray had—the tenderness between his buttocks was not exactly unpleasant. But his knees didn’t seem to want to hold him up. Out of shape. He should exercise more.

“Well,” Ray said, sitting in his own chair, “you still got—you know.”

Fraser’s breath caught, and he found himself blushing. “All right,” he said lightly. Another—

“And, I’ll bet—” Ray dropped Fraser’s boxer shorts into the center of the table.

It was a good hand. And it won the shorts, just as later hands won the jeans, the undershirt, the shirt, the socks, the boots, and the belt. Odd, how he now began to win. And, odder still, how disappointed he was at winning. Ray’s eyes danced with mischief—but there was shyness in the smile.

A loud sigh from Diefenbaker made Fraser realize how late it was. Ray stretched. “Well, it’s late,” he said. “I better go.”

Fraser walked him to the door.

“Another game tomorrow night? Maybe you’ll win big this time.” Ray’s smile was tender, but his hand clutched the door so tightly that his knuckles showed white.

Fraser gazed steadily into the twinkling eyes. “Er—yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”

The hand relaxed. “Great! I’ll bring the beer.”

“Good! I look forward to it.”

Closing the door, he found himself stroking the wood where Ray’s hand had been, as if it held the memory of touch.

Diefenbaker yawned elaborately. Fraser looked over at the wolf, who stared back with that mixture of innocence and arrogance that was only Diefenbaker’s. Really; the way that wolf indulged himself was disgusting. Taking the bed like that. He’d have to initiate some discipline around here. It was Fraser’s bed, after all. Wolves didn’t belong on it, especially when Ray was visiting—

Clean up. He had to clean up. No sense leaving a mess for tomorrow.

Olive oil placed carefully on its shelf, empty cans in the recycling bin, pretzel crumbs brushed off the table—his bare hand brushing the oilcloth. It seemed—warm. He smoothed both palms on the place where Ray had made him—the place where they’d made love. Made love. His hands shook. It wasn’t love. It was sex. Men didn’t make love with each other. They—well, he wasn’t sure what to call it. But this had been merely paying off a poker debt. Only that.

He brushed the rest of the crumbs off the table with the palm of his hand. The cloth didn’t really need scrubbing, and it certainly didn’t need bleach. Bleach was out of the question; it would ruin the cloth, which was really too good to replace.

Tomorrow. He would shop for groceries tomorrow: olive oil and maple syrup and—let’s see. Snacks for the poker game tomorrow night. The drugstore on the way to the market. He’d stop there tomorrow. His hands caressed the warm spot on the table. Tomorrow, and another night of poker. Another chance to lose—and, losing, to win.


End file.
